My name is not Emma, but that is what you will call me and I shall call myself in this forum. I am American (although I am known for my drunken, cheeky British accent), and I am a bacon cheeseburger aficionado. I also want to save all the dogs. All of them.
I am really writing this blog because my therapist suggested it'd be a good idea (How's that for a good start: chemically unbalanced female writes a blog about ??toilets??). Why am I seeing a therapist you might ask? Because a few long months ago I did what most individuals wish they had the balls to do: I got fed up with the state of my life and drove to Florida without telling my parents or anyone else. This wouldn't have been such a big deal if I wasn't just a senior in high school who had consecutively been class president for four years, or if I hadn't left a suicide/goodbye note in my mom's astrology book. Now you are probably thinking: what a spoiled little brat. How is her life SO TERRIBLE when she's just a senior in high school? Well for those you who forgot: being a teenager was and is pretty damn hard. You feel all the feelings and are expected to make intense life choices when you can barely make yourself a bowl of cereal. I allowed others to fit me in socially where they pleased. I had no real identity outside of my catty friend group. In general, I sucked at being myself. I was a plastic lawn flamingo: hollow, and just there for decoration. Then I just got really tired of it. The problem with realizing you're living your life the wrong way: you leave another life, and a ton of people behind. And that shit tends to get messy, and really hard to explain.
Long story short-- I was retrieved by my parents from Florida and brought home to therapy. And now I am here-- at the crossroads of my life, writing this blog. I am about to start college in Fall, I have a job, dynamics in my family are changing as I age, and there's just a lot going on. I need to tell someone about it. And my poor, stiff, meek therapist (God bless him for putting up with my shenanigans) simply isn't going to help me say all I need to say. So, why not the internet?
This blog is my toilet. It is where I dump all my shit and flush it away, it is my toilet diary-- hence the name. The fact that I happen to do most of my blogging during my quiet time, on the toilet, is really mere coincidence.
Life is far from perfect, and since my writing attempts to capture snippets of my life-- I can assure you this blog will be flooded with mistakes, indiscretions, admittances of guilt, and good ole' fashioned embarrassment.
Now that that’s taken care of, let’s have toast to the quarter life crisis—and to the poor schmuck who came up with that concept.
Talk to you later,